


Hide and Seek

by ArwenKenobi



Series: The Refining Fire 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenKenobi/pseuds/ArwenKenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”You owe him the truth, and you owe me the proof that will convince him that I had no part in this.”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide and Seek

They leave St. Bart’s less than two hours after hashing things out with Mycroft and Lestrade. Sarah and Harry’s urgent texts and comments on the blog go unanswered – in fact Mycroft takes both John and Sherlock’s mobiles and gives them some new ones with recorders in them. Ringing each other, they all decide, is a bad idea but any calls that Moriarty makes to them are welcome and should be documented. They all know that it’s only a matter of time before Moriarty figures out the numbers.

They spend four weeks in hiding at an undisclosed military location, though Sherlock is positive that they are actually not far outside of Cardiff. This is from a man who hasn’t seen daylight in weeks. They are here to heal before the real work begins. While Sherlock gets his arm and shoulder back up to strength, John runs laps. Runs laps and uses the empty training rooms to get his military training back to the front of his mind. It’s not like he has ever forgotten it but he needs those instincts to stay. He treats this like a battle. At times he expects that when they eventually go out into the world again it will be all sand and heat and little else.

Sherlock is worried, a little, and John does his best to not go completely over into his training. He doesn’t want to do that to himself and he doesn’t want to do it Sherlock. Sherlock trusts him and the last thing he wants to do is have a complete personality transplant and throw that relationship off. Though, he wonders, if he went completely into military mode if Sherlock would be bothered all that much. He never asks and Sherlock never complains. He reserves that for his arm and his shoulder and it’s when the complaining stops that John knows they’re ready.

Mycroft unleashes them into Ireland as if he was releasing hounds on trespassers and that’s the last time he sees Mycroft for a good long while.

The pair of them are soon listed as missing persons. Lestrade’s dreary voice on the telly implies that they’re really looking for bodies. Lestrade is a much better actor than John ever imagined. Even Sherlock is impressed. Not that he’d admit it but John knows these things.

\- - -

Jim Moriarty is not their only target. John has been forced to note the similarities in Moriarty and Sherlock and is not at all surprised when they’re given the name of Moriarty’s right hand man shortly after leaving Mycroft – the one who had very likely been holding that gun on him and Sherlock that night at the pool.  
Sebastian Moran. The Sebastian Moran from the banking case no less. The Sebastian that Sherlock had gone to uni with. It surprises John and infuriates Sherlock. “I should have seen that,” he rages from their hole in the wall apartment in Belfast. “He was always the type.”

Sherlock lectures on Moran’s family life. A military family, both parents still deeply involved in their old regiments. He liked guns but hated discipline and wasn’t a bad shot either from what Sherlock deduced. Extremely privileged upbringing with hunting trips almost every holiday and a snobbish attitude coupled with a sense of entitlement. John had not cared for him much when he’d met him and it certainly did not surprise him that Sherlock had such disdain for him. What did surprise John was that Sherlock remembered all of this. Why would Sherlock, who guarded his brain space fanatically, remember such details about a man whom he hadn’t spoken to in years before being hired by him?

“Were you friends with him?” he asks. At Sherlock’s inquiring eyebrow John explains his reasoning and thinks he sees pride behind the hurt in his companion’s eyes.

“Friend is perhaps too strong a word,” Sherlock corrects once his mask is back on. “I had been beginning to consider him something between acquaintance and friend when it came to my attention that his motives for enduring my presence were far from friendly ones.”

John suddenly, vividly, remembers Laurel Miller. Laurel had been the girlfriend of one of his lab partners, Chris, back when they were all at Bart’s together. Laurel had been an insanely talented doctor but her real claim to fame was her insane memory. She remembered almost everything she read and heard and soaked up general information like sponge. She was ridiculously, horribly, smart. He wasn’t sure where she was working now but he was sure she was doing crazy cancer research somewhere. She was fantastic to have around and John loved having her around whenever he was doing a crossword. Also for study group. She knew everything about anything ever it seemed. Aside from that he hadn’t known her all that well aside from their rounds and assignments, or whenever she’d been with Chris.

Chris had been a bit of a git. He’d wanted to be remembered and, really, Chris was too much of a lazy bastard to make a good impression on anyone. He didn’t even have a great talent to fall back on. That was where Laurel had come in. There had always been parties and job fairs and other affairs for them all to attend in the search for more lucrative jobs and of course everyone had gone. Where John and some of the other students actually had talent to entice employers Chris had had no real distinguishing features. He had Laurel instead.  
Then one day Laurel had vanished, never to be found again. John knew damn well what had happened and had nearly punched Chris when he’d had to explain that Laurel may have been incredibly smart but she was not blinded by love or whatever Chris had done to get her to date him.

“You were the token weird friend, right?”

Another raised inquisitive eyebrow raise. John tells him about Laurel and Sherlock and is both impressed and flattered that Sherlock doesn’t interrupt any point of the tale. No deductions, no snorts, no commentary, no nothing. “He used her to get ahead,” John concludes. “Or rather tried since I remember him getting the boot the term after she left him, he used her to make himself memorable. It also made him look nice since, as you can imagine, she had very few friends.”

Sherlock nods and John thinks he sees just how lonely Sherlock is only now realising that he’s been. That is the only thing about meeting him that John regrets. “Laurel made Chris look good. He used her talents instead of appreciating and respecting them while caring for Laurel herself.”

Sherlock remains quiet for several moments before admitting that Laurel’s situation with Mike was very similar to his situation with Sebastian. “I, however, did not have Laurel’s good sense,” he sighs and settles back in his chair.

John could see it all too well. It wouldn’t have been a harsh severing of ties, at least not to Sebastian. It would have been a rudely civil ‘we’re different people now’ sort of thing more than a proper falling out. You go your way and I’ll go mine and all that. Sebastian, they knew now, had a bit of a taste for the psychopathic but this was early days. Also, Sherlock had been useful to him. Sebastian didn’t ruin those whose usefulness had been outlived, he just killed them quicker.

John’s lost friends and he’s lost lovers and the more painful ones are always the ones where the other person dumps them so politely that it’s more like seeing a business contract end than a perceived relationship.“Well,” he says. “I’m not going to be getting bored with you anytime soon.”

Sherlock says that John can’t promise that but it’s half hearted. Sherlock knows that John’s not leaving and that’s the end of that. He is here in a smelly apartment in the shitty end of Belfast tracking a criminal while the world at large lists them as a missing persons presumed dead.

He’s said to have vanished within hours of Sherlock in that false report. He’d wished it had said that they’d vanished together but Lestrade had said that it was unrealistic. Two grown men vanishing at the same moment in the same place? No. Better Sherlock vanish and then John. Moriarty might assume that John is looking for Sherlock.

Little does anyone suspect that that’s not the way things turn out at all.

\- - -  
The first year and a bit seems to pass faster than John’s entire tour in Afghanistan had; and that’s taking into account when he was wounded and didn’t know up from down or one day from the next. It’s like being on an episode of that show where your pick up clues leading you to different international destinations in a race against other pairs. There are really two pairs in this particular race. Sure there are hit men, thieves, drug dealers, and other small fish that get caught in their nets and are summarily dealt with but it’s really Holmes and Watson versus Moriarty and Moran. Things begin to get incredibly more personal as things go on; they taunt each other through text, phone, notes, crimes, whatever they can. It’s a game for everyone in some way. Whenever they get close, which is constantly, they would split up going after their mirror images (or so it seemed to John’s rather poetic mind). At this point it was almost agreed upon officially that Sherlock would have Moriarty in the end while John would get Moran.

There was a time when John would have minded this. He remembered almost thirsting for that man’s blood while he’d been in the hospital. Moriarty had orchestrated this whole mess and had killed all those people and had nearly killed dozens of others – himself and Sherlock included several times over by now –since then. That was before he realised that when Moriarty had said that he didn’t like getting his hands dirty he’d meant it. People were obstacles in the way and he ordered them dealt with and that was where his involvement really ended. That was where Sebastian Moran’s psychopathic tendencies came in. He was the one who did all the murders, who did all the dirty work, and John knew that he enjoyed it. He’d seen enough of the bodies by now. Moriarty’s orders never said how things should be taken care of either; Sebastian always did what he wanted as long as he cleaned up after himself. Mostly.

John has come to understand that Moriarty and Sherlock live in the abstract. Moriarty either has no concept of what he’s doing or simply doesn’t care. Sherlock often functions the same way but with himself more than with others. The difference here is that Sherlock believes that Moriarty has never had anyone stand up to him properly before. It’s a psychological game more than a physical one at this point and it is a level that John knows that he can’t play on. He is too immersed in the practical, man on man, conflict that lay between him and Sebastian Moran.

He really should not have been surprised when Mycroft contacted them and told them they needed to split up. Moriarty had moved onto Prague and Moran had gone to New York. Sherlock had fought furiously against the idea until Mycroft had finally hung up on him. “We can get Moriarty and go back for Moran,” he argues to John. It’s too hot for this nonsense, John thinks over Sherlock’s raging. They’re in Greece now and it hasn’t rained in weeks.

“I’m not letting Moran go on while we go after Moriarty,” John says firmly. “There’s two of us and two of them. It makes the most sense. We get them both and regroup when it’s all done.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “We work best as a team.” John almost asks him to put that in writing. “Don’t smile like that,” he snaps. “Separating is dangerous.”

“This whole thing is dangerous,” John reminds him. “Separating doesn’t add much to it.” He picks up Sherlock’s travel documents and currency and hands them to him. “You knew it would come down to this, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” he snorts, snatching the pile away and into his pockets. “I was merely hoping it wouldn’t actually happen.”

Hope. That’s new for Sherlock. John’s proud.  
.  
“Well here it is,” John tells him. “We’ll be done faster this way too, you know that.”

Sherlock nods and hands John his own documents. “Text when you can,” he says by way of an order. “I’ll do the same.”

John nods. “Will do.”

He’s on a plane to New York the next morning. Sherlock stupidly accompanies him to the airport. They shake hands, wish each other luck on the hunt, and then go their separate ways.

Both look back but neither of them sees the other.

\- - -

John texts whenever he can, which is every two or three weeks, with joking queries after Sherlock’s well being or with minor updates, nothing top secret like where he is or what he’s doing aside from the obvious. He never gets replies. He dismisses it as Sherlock being overly concerned with the task at hand and lets it lie but doesn’t stop texting. He also spends quite a bit of time dashing around America, going in and out of service that he thinks that if Sherlock ever had sent him anything that he never would have got it.

His first text message since he’d left Greece – seven months now - is from Mycroft reporting that Moriarty is dead and inquiring as to his progress on Moran. He rings Mycroft back immediately despite orders stating that John never ever ring Mycroft unless texted to do so.

“How’s Sherlock?” he demands before Mycroft can even get a ‘what?’ out.

“Fine,” the elder Holmes replies. “Didn’t I tell you never to ring me?”

“Seriously, how is he?” John barges on. “He’s never killed anyone before.” Not directly anyway.

“It’s fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Can you tell him I’m fine then?” John suddenly demands. “Or can you put him on? I haven’t heard from him in ages.” Sherlock would have at least texted him that Moriarty was dead if only to gloat about getting his part done first.

“He’ll contact you when he can.” Mycroft hangs up on him. When John furiously redials he’s informed the number is disconnected.

John used to have conversations like this in Afghanistan all the time. Sometimes they were as bad as they sounded, sometimes they were worse, and sometimes they were nothing at all. He dials Sherlock’s number, not caring that they had said that calling each other was a colossally bad idea or that Sherlock hated phone calls as much as he hated Anderson.

“We’re sorry. The number you are trying to reach is not in service...”

There are a couple reasons for that message. Sherlock could have lost the phone. The phone could have broken. The phone may be in a dead zone. Sherlock’s clearly not hurt or dead because Mycroft would have said something.

He really hopes Mycroft would have said something.

He tries Mycroft again. Number disconnected. He grumbles, tries intermittently for a week or two, then he gets a lead and doesn’t touch the phone again for two months.

\- - -

John had never done covert operations when he’d been in Afghanistan but he knew enough about how to not be found and how to do reconnaissance and blend in. Some it from the army but the rest supplemented from Sherlock. It proves to be a winning combination. He plays a handful of different roles and doesn’t even think of himself as John Watson again until he finds Moran living the high life in Montreal, committing crimes and doing whatever he wants without any fear of consequences. Moriarty had been the leash for this mad dog. Now the leash was gone. John still finds his visibility and, dare he say it, his stupidity uncharacteristic but he’s stopped caring about Moran’s motives for anything anymore.

He kills or incapacitates everyone else in his path and then, finally, it’s just him and a surprised Moran in a warehouse full of cocaine.

“You got sloppy,” he lectures his quarry at gunpoint. It was an understatement to end all understatements. Moran had gotten so cocky that he wasn’t even armed. “You didn’t I’d actually be able to find you, did you?”

“Considering what I’d heard, I think I’m justified.”

John almost asks what he’s heard but decides that doesn’t matter. The usual crap that criminals seem to say about him he’s sure. Besides, Sebastian Moran is scum and it’s better he goes out now before he further pollutes the universe with his presence. He shoots Moran between the eyes with a precision and aim that screams military. He throws his shoulders back until they crack and exits the building. Anti-climactic to be sure but John’s not the one with a flair for the dramatic. He rides the Metro until he’s far enough away and checked into a hotel before he texts Mycroft that he’s done the job and he’s quite ready to have transport back to London arranged.

 _That would be best,_ reads the reply. _Sherlock’s been an insufferable mess since you died._  
He’s positive he’s read that wrong.

He looks at it again. That word is still there  
.  
He dials Sherlock’s mobile number. This number has been disconnected.

He dials Sherlock’s old mobile number. This number is out of service.

He dials Mrs. Hudson. This number is out of service.

He dials his own voicemail . This number is out of service.

He dials Mycroft. Voicemail.

“You have three minutes to ring back and explain that text before I kill you next.”

Two minutes and forty-five seconds later, Mycroft rings back.

\-- -

John is back in London within twenty four hours of the two hour conversation – mostly of John screaming at Mycroft – and checks into the hotel Mycroft arranged for him. John notes that it’s well enough away from Baker Street that it’s unlikely he’ll bump into Sherlock on a street corner or something. The man clearly hadn’t totally lost his mind then. The jet lag and exhaustion of the whole mission abruptly catches up with him and he passes out on the bed and sleeps for nearly two days straight before waking up and remembering the whole mess.

Sherlock had killed Moriarty seven months after they’d gone their separate ways in Greece. Three months after they’d left Sherlock had been informed via meeting with some of Mycroft’s people – and later Mycroft himself – that Moriarty had captured John and had had him killed. They had photos, blood samples, DNA samples, a video, the lot. Sherlock, naturally, hadn’t accepted what he’d seen and had sidetracked from the original mission by trying to find faults in the evidence presented to him. He hadn’t found any which meant that what remained in front of him, however painful and impossible it was to believe, had to be the truth.

“Sherlock would not have killed Moriarty otherwise,” had been Mycroft’s explanation. “He would have toyed with him, maybe even let him go – “

“He wouldn’t have let him go,” John had argued savagely. “He’s not that deranged.”

“True,” Mycroft had allowed after a moment’s consternation. “But he would have left him alive. You of all people have to agree that Moriarty had to be taken down at all costs. “

“Then why didn’t you send me after Moriarty then?” John had snapped. “If that’s what you were really worried about you know I would have brought him down without any hesitation.”

“And then what of Moran? If Moran had been killed first Moriarty would have thought nothing of it. Wouldn’t have made the mistakes that allowed you to catch him. No, Doctor Watson, you needed to get Moran. For that to happen Moriarty needed to die and Sherlock needed to do it. For that, you needed to die as well.”

He had wanted to argue that maybe Moran would have gone after Sherlock next but John knew that he never would have. After the news had broken Moran had forgotten all about Sherlock and had simply gone mad with power – or at least madder than he had been previously. He’d forgotten Sherlock and John, in his intense study of Moran, hadn’t pieced together why Moran was being such an idiot about things. Hadn’t bothered with figuring out why this was easier than he’d thought.

Sherlock had thought he was dead, still thought he was dead. Moriarty had been dead now for two and a half months. Sherlock had spent six months – nearly seven – believing that John was dead. That his friend, partner, comrade at arms, whatever, was dead.

Mycroft, he decided, was a monster. John told him so.

“Would you rather I’d done the opposite?” Mycroft had asked him in response. He’d waited a bit for John to answer and, when John had remained silent, told him that he’d ring him back with flight information.  
He’d had much rather he’d done it the other way, John had decided on the plane ride back. Not just for the obvious reason of wanting to spare Sherlock pain but also for more practical ones. If Sherlock showed up on his doorstep alive after seven months of being dead, John believes he would have handled it better. Yes he would have been angry and all but he would have recovered faster because it’s Sherlock and he’d expect nonsense like this. He would never do this to Sherlock and Sherlock knew it. That was where the hurt would be.

If John turns up on his doorstep now he’s likely to have the door slammed in his face and be turned away forever. John knows enough about Sherlock to know that he would not handle this perceived betrayal well; he’d seen that in his eyes at the pool before Moriarty had strolled out. And Sherlock would see this as a betrayal before anything else. Getting him to understand what Mycroft had done would be something that would take time; time that John would not have in those chaotic moments. John had to stay out of sight and dead for awhile yet. He couldn’t let Sherlock see him before he understood Mycroft’s actions.

Breaking this to Sherlock will have to be done gradually. He snorts at the irony of breaking the idea that he’s alive the same way that one breaks the news that one is dead. He rings Mycroft.

“What did I tell you about ringing me?”

“All that stuff you showed Sherlock, I want it. I want you to tell me what you’ve done and I want all that evidence.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you owe him the truth, and you owe me the proof that will convince him that I had no part in this.”  
Mycroft sighs. “Just go home, Doctor.”

“I am not going to give him a heart attack or have him toss me out for playing a trick on him that I was unaware I was partaking in.” He stands and angrily paces his hotel room. “You used him. You manipulated him and used him to get a problem out of the way. You fucked him over, not me, and I am not getting the blame for this.”

Mycroft hangs up on him. John rolls his eyes and shouts angrily to the empty room.

He wonders if this is what it’s like to be a ghost.

\- - -

He posts Sherlock his coat and nothing else. He purchases the box, the paper, and the stamps at three different locations using three different errand runners. He’s surprised they don’t run off with the notes he gives them but it seems he’s gotten better at reading people these days. He has the woman at the front desk fill in the address and has the maid actually post it.

He watches Sherlock’s website for three days – which hasn’t been updated since the entry about meeting at the pool two years ago – before something happens. A photo of his jacket, front and back, is posted with the question “Is this yours? Inquire at 221b Baker Street.”

There are a few comments. Molly Hooper points out that she thinks it’s John’s. Sally Donovan says it can’t be since the last time she’d seen it there had been blood and brains all over it. Wonderful tact, John thinks. Well done, Donovan. At least he knew that they’d found a replica of his jacket, or had one done. Not all that hard he gathers.

With that comment of Sally having seen the coat, John now knows that Scotland Yard must have known something. Did he die here? Or was it forwarded to Scotland Yard?

His mobile buzzes. Text message. _You haven’t seen him yet. Why?_

Because Sherlock needs to figure this out himself. Needs to understand what has happened before John allows himself to be seen. Sherlock’s never been one for talks or words. Actions have always reached him better than words.

Plus, Sherlock always went for weird. A pristine coat belong to a dead man who had supposedly died wearing it had to get those gears going.

He doesn’t text Mycroft back. He can figure it out himself.

\- - -

He’s at an internet cafe in the process of hacking into Scotland Yard’s case files database – a trick that Sherlock had taught him while on the run – when Sarah walks in and almost screams. He shushes her and gestures her toward him. She comes over and settles next to him with all the grace of newborn horse. Her greeting is much the same.

“The accounts of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” She hugs him tight and asks if Sherlock has seen him yet. She nearly hits him when he says no.

“You have to,” she scolds. “That man has been an utter wreck since he popped back. Doesn’t talk to anyone. Doesn’t do cases. Doesn’t do anything.”

“He’s got one now.” He explains the coat and his rationale.

“I’d still be pissed at you if you told me this way,” Sarah says.

“He’s not most people,” John shrugs. Sherlock will still be pissed he’s sure, but at least not at him. He wants Sherlock to understand that he’s not like Sebastian Moran. That Sherlock is not his Laurel Miller.

“You never saw me,” he tells Sarah. “If you ever see Sherlock, if he ever asks. This never happened. You’re sorry for his loss and all that. Same for if you see anyone else. I’m still in bits wherever they said I was found.  
”  
“How’d you know that?”

John almost points to the evidence he’s poking through but catches himself. There’s no other conclusion based on what he’s seen. Sarah obviously wants to ask more but has the decency not to. Instead she informs John that she’s engaged. He’d noticed, of course. “My best wishes,” he tells her. “If I manage to resurrect myself I’ll come to the wedding.”

“I’d love you to.” She smiles, kisses him on the cheek, and tells him she has to be off. She promises him that she won’t tell anyone and disappears back into the crowd. He’s not getting an invitation. She’s hurt that he’d never sent a message and that he’s more worried about getting Sherlock ready for the news than her.

If ever he had any doubts about his course of action they are certainly gone now.

He finds what he’s looking for and looks closely at the pictures. A look alike. Very likely a criminal or prisoner that Mycroft had tossed to Moriarty’s dogs in place of him and they’d pounced all over him. As usual, the people involved in the murder are not Moriarty. Moran isn’t even there either. A bunch of goons who probably had never seen him outside of a photograph, they probably don’t care either. They do a number on him and that’s for sure. He wants to look away, he wants very badly to look away, but he can’t. It’s strange, he thinks to distract himself from the footage, how this man sounds exactly like him. That is definitely his voice...

He remembers the recorders in the mobiles with a sickening crash in his stomach. That bastard...  
He copies the files to a USB key he’d bought down the road and closes the window. After examining this copy and finds a glaring error that Sherlock should have noticed. Though, he has to admit, there’s a lot of blood and guts there that it would easily be missed. Then there was also Sherlock’s emotional state at the time. John wouldn’t have noticed it either if positions had been reversed. There’s a mark that looks almost like it could be what it’s supposed to be but it’s not. He edits the photo, circling the man’s left shoulder, and e-mails it to Sherlock’s blog from an account he just created.

 _No bullet scar on left shoulder = not John Watson_. Is what he writes as a caption before signing off.

\- --

His mobile rings the next morning. “Very clever,” Mycroft praises. “Giving him a puzzle instead of just telling him. How sweet.”

“I do still have some sense of self preservation, you know.”

“You could have told him. He wouldn’t have hated you forever. You must have known that.”

“I’m not having him believe or even suspect that I did this willingly to him.” He shrugs despite the fact that Mycroft can’t see him. “Besides, he already considers you his enemy anyway so I’m really not doing any real harm.”

That shuts Mycroft up. “It was for the best,” he tells him.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

Myrcoft hangs up. John hopes that Sherlock knows how to get the information of the recorders. If not, John considers, there’s also the large library of texts between him and Mycroft for the past few weeks. There are also a pile of ones that he’d sent Sherlock that he had a feeling had never been received.

He walks to the post office and mails Sherlock his mobile. He addresses the package himself.

A few hours later he makes the first update to his blog in over two years.

 _Reports of my death are false. I had no part in them and I’m sorry that you all suffered for it. I can’t get into specifics now but I’m safe, uninjured, and am back in London. Not home yet but hopefully soon._

That’s as obvious as he cares to go.

\- - -

He does nothing but eat, sleep, and watch crap television shows while refreshing Sherlock’s website every five minutes for two days. He’d checked his blog once and read the slew of comments from Stamford, Lestrade, Harry and all the others. They know what’s happened, John believes Lestrade must have filled them in, and are begging to see or talk to him. He doesn’t answer them, especially not Harry’s death threats.

There are no messages from Sherlock.

There’s a knock on his door and he thinks it’s Sherlock for one moment until the door opens revealing some hotel management informing him that he’s been checked out and if he wants to stay longer he must pay up now. John, of course, has no credit cards and he has nowhere near enough money on him to pay for this room.  
Petty bastard, John thinks as he grabs his money and bag and walks out.

He hails a cab back to Baker Street and pounds on the door. No one home. His keys, along with all his other personal effects, are with Mycroft and he has no desire to go over there and demand it all back. He wants to kick the door down but decides that’s a phenomenally bad idea and settles with picking the lock instead. Another trick from Sherlock and one he almost matches Sherlock at.

He does it again to get into the flat itself. For a moment he thinks it’s 2010 again until he realises that the place is so tidy that it’s frightening. Nothing has been touched, it seems, in months. The couch has obviously been used enough and there is a single cigarette butt in an ashtray that John was sure had been used for chemical experiments before.

Sherlock’s bedroom, when he walks by it, is a bomb site. He isn’t sure whether Sherlock actually went ballistic and threw things or else he’s been storing things in there. There are certainly enough bullet holes in the wall to suggest the former. His heart tenses and he takes the bullets out of his gun, he goes back to leave it by the couch. Sherlock won’t miss it when he comes back. He leaves the bullets there too. He throws his bag on the couch as he walks up the stairs again.

His room is spotless but dusty and obviously has not been aired out. The air is stuffy and everything is precisely as he’d left it that night he’d gone out to see Sarah and had ended up strapped to a bomb instead. No one has been in here since. His sheets smell stale but he collapses onto the bed anyway. He has no right to be tired but it’s either pass out or sit here and wait in silence until Sherlock comes home.

Sleep it is then.

\- - -

He wakes up when his stomach starts growling. He sighs in annoyance and gets out of bed padding carefully past Sherlock’s room and down the stairs. As he reaches the half way point down the stairs he remembers what the date is and what he’s waiting for. He slows down.

Sherlock is standing in front of the couch, taking in the bag and the gun as if they might attack him. Here is his couch, John knows he’s thinking, here is my couch with John’s things all over it. John does not leave his things on my couch because he knows that I’m likely to just take it and use it for my own purposes because it’s convenient. Here is all he’s had on him for the past two years. Right here in front of me.

Actions speak louder than words, John reminds himself with pride. When Sherlock steps over the table, and the gun, and starts to open the bag John warns “I wouldn’t do that. Most of it’s laundry. Haven’t had much opportunity to do any.”

Sherlock starts and turns toward him. The bag drops back to the couch. He’s surprised Sherlock and this is normally a time to gloat but not this time. John doesn’t make any sudden moves or say anything past that. He braces his hands on the doorframe and waits for Sherlock to speak.

“I went to the hotel,” Sherlock finally says as though he’s confessing. “Once I got the full story out of Mycroft,” John wishes he could have seen that. “You weren’t there.”

John sighs, cursing Mycroft and himself all at once. Of course Sherlock would have eventually come to the hotel. “Bad timing,” he apologizes. “Mycroft stopped paying so I left and came back here.”

“How did you get in?”

“Picked the locks.”

“You’re getting good at that.”

“I know. Thanks.”

Silence for a moment. John takes a step closer and examines Sherlock. He’s thinner and paler than ever and his eyes are haunted. He looks awful and there is no polite way to say it.

“I apologize,” Sherlock says, noting his distress. “I’ve been using myself too freely lately.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” John near sputters. He steps closer and lowers his voice. “I’m the one who owes you the apology, Sherlock.”

“No you don’t,” Sherlock says testily. “You’ve made it quite clear that you had no part in this sham – “

“But you’re not going to get one from Mycroft so you’re getting one from me. I’m sorry you were put through this. If I had known what was going on, I would have done something.”

“Like put a bullet in Mycroft’s head?”

John shrugs but returns the ghost of the smile that Sherlock is trying very hard to hide. “Maybe not so rash as that,” he admits. “At the very least I would’ve found a phone that would let me dial your number.”

Sherlock blinks. “You tried to call me?”

“Of course I did!” John cries, indignant. “I hadn’t heard from you either and I was getting worried myself! The only reason I knew that you weren’t dead was because Mycroft told me Moriarty was and that you were fine.”

“Fine is certainly an interesting way to describe the state of affairs,” Sherlock gripes but doesn’t go into any details. He doesn’t need to.

“I asked to talk to you,” John adds. “He said you’d call me when you could.”

“And what did you think when I didn’t?”

“Honestly, I didn’t think much,” he admits. “I got a lead on Moran and didn’t think past getting that dealt with, he’s dead too by the way. The next time I thought to touch my phone was to tell Mycroft and you know the rest. “He can’t stop his head from shaking or his right hand curling into a fist. He didn’t care what Mycroft was trying to do, whether it was some attempt to protect Sherlock or the public or whatever, it still infuriated him that Mycroft was willing to do that to either of them.

Sherlock’s smirk returns. “Ah, yes,” he says fondly. “That conversation was also recorded.” He steps closer so their personal space is almost nonexistent and reaches out to John, who doesn’t move. This part is crucial; he knows it in his bones.

Sherlock presses his hand gently but firmly on John’s chest, just above his heart. Sherlock shuts his eyes for a few moments and John knows that he’s envisioning it as well as feeling it, perhaps even hearing it beat along with his. “Am I alive then?” he whispers.

Sherlock nods and then hugs him tight. Nothing gentle about this hug either. It’s a fierce, protective, bear hug and John does his best not to wince when he feels fingernails in his back. He hugs Sherlock back, trying to make his embrace gentle but finding that it is just as fierce as his friend’s. He’s home, they’re both alive, and it’s all officially over now.

They break apart when John’s stomach growls. Sherlock jumps back and John flushes. “You hungry?” he asks.  
Sherlock nods enthusiastically. “Starved,” he informs him. “I’ll pay.“

Sherlock leads him out and John, once again, follows close but makes sure that he’s always within Sherlock’s line of sight. When they’re settled at their favourite Chinese restaurant, which welcomes them back joyfully since neither of them have been seen in so long, John feels the tension of battle leave him. He breathes it out of him in the form of a contented sigh. The sigh has barely left his lips when Sherlock says “Welcome back, John.” It’s said casually but John knows better than that.

He says he’s glad to be back in the same tone of voice. They smile.

Their smiles, he knows, are what they’ll remember.

“You could have just sent me the phone in the first place,” Sherlock suggests. “Why didn’t you...” He blinks. “You forgot about the recorder! You idiot, how on earth do you manage these things?”

John himself has no idea but he has no issues with Sherlock telling them to him. He’s glad to be here and Sherlock knows it, and is also glad to have him to scream at again. You wouldn’t think it, to listen to it but John knows these things.

Actions speak louder than words and Sherlock has just passed him his wallet and keys.


End file.
